


The Daily Grind

by winterwaters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Barista AU, Barista Clarke, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4430111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwaters/pseuds/winterwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this Tumblr prompt: "I’m a barista and you’re the obnoxious customer who comes through and orders a venti macchiato while talking on the phone the whole time so I misspell your name in increasingly creative ways every day AU"</p>
<p>Clarke being the barista, Bellamy being the customer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Daily Grind

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to fill this one foreverrr and finally found the chance to. Thanks to _enoughtotemptme_ for brainstorming some ideas way back when! Hope you enjoy! :)

Clarke first bumps into him in the fall. 

She’s running down the sidewalk, backpack slung over her shoulder, hair streaming from her messy ponytail as she checks her watch for the fifth time and prays that the coffee shop’s clock is still three minutes back like it always is.

That way, she’ll technically only be 9 minutes late, instead of 12. 

She’s kind of hoping she managed to wipe off the paint from every visible body part, hasty as her shower was, but hey, who could really blame her for getting caught up in her latest art project, especially when it involved the help of her nephew? Okay, fine, Oliver's not her nephew by blood, but Wells is the closest thing she's ever had to a sibling and even their parents argue like a married couple half the time, so, yeah, he’s her nephew in all the ways that count. 

In any case, she barely managed to shove him into his father’s waiting arms with a yelled “See you Thursday!” before she took off racing for her shift. She’s been working at this shop ever since she started college-- just because it’s her senior year doesn’t mean she can get complacent. Kane hired her for efficiency; he doesn’t have the time or energy for flakiness, as she’s well aware. Especially when she maneuvered to get a semester full of evening classes, leaving her mornings open to work shifts.

So she flies down the last block, peripherally noting how the leaves are showing tinges of red and orange and gold, already scattered across the ground like a canopy. A warm palette, she hears her earliest art teachers explaining, and grins to herself. She’s still smiling as she rounds the corner and sees her own freshly painted sign for _The Daily Grind ___, complete with espresso beans and a full mug of steaming coffee against a a glossy orange background.

She doesn’t slow down, grabbing for the handle the same time as a large tanned hand reaches for it. Startled, she looks up into equally surprised dark eyes.

_Wow._

The owner of the hand is distractingly handsome, the angles of his face seemingly carved by hand, the cut of his button-up shirt impeccably fitting to the sweep of his shoulders, cuffs rolled to his elbows, and where his collar peeks open she can see the chords of muscle that begin at his neck and disappear beneath. She has half a mind to ask if he’d be willing to be a model for her final project. Or, you know, forever.

He stares back at her, his eyes doing an up and down sweep that would be a tad creepy if not for the awed expression on his face, and it makes shivers crawl down her spine until she realizes they’re both still hanging onto the door, his big warm hand wrapped around hers. 

“Sorry, I-” she starts to say, but he waves her off, directing all his attention to the phone at his ear.

“What? Yeah, yeah, I’m here. _Sandali lang._ ”

His voice is low, raspy, and yeah Clarke can maybe think of one too many situations she’d like to hear it. Then he laughs, eyes shifting to her for just half a second, but it’s enough to make her spine stiffen. 

Suddenly, she’s annoyed, because she’s pretty sure that laugh had something to do with _her_ \- why else would you speak in a foreign language in front of a stranger? - and that drives her nuts. She might also be a bit ticked that he seems to be completely unaffected by their encounter. The flare of interest in those eyes hadn’t been entirely imaginary… had it? 

He motions for her to go ahead of him, still talking distractedly into the phone like his life depends on it. Clarke’s eyebrows lift. _Alright then…_ She rolls her eyes, irritated with herself for being so silly, and does her best not to stomp inside. Overhead, the cheery tinkle of the sun and stars wind chime catches her attention. She pauses for a moment, going on her tiptoes, her fingertips just able to brush the bottom of the chimes that she and Harper put up so carefully whilst teetering atop the creaky white stepstool.

There’s a warm, solid presence at her back, and even though she doesn’t turn her head she feels him watching her. 

“Eleven minutes, Griffin,” Anya calls from the counter.

“I can read time, thanks very much,” she snarks back.

“Then why are you late?”

Clarke doesn’t dignify that with a response, just shoves through the swinging door into the back and launches her bag into a corner, stuffing her hair under the requisite blue cap and tying her stained apron a little too vehemently until she realizes breathing is sort of necessary. Leaning against a shelf, she inhales the scent of coffee beans and listens to the espresso machine whir until she feels semi-calm again.

_Get a grip, Griffin._

With a sigh, she marches back outside and plants a smile on her face. Of course, who would be first in line except Mr. Smooth Talker himself, who is still on the phone. Now he’s smiling, all white teeth and crinkled eyes as he takes in her attire, and she’s just plain grumpy because he should not get to look at her like that when he’s not even speaking to her.

“Can I help you?” She asks a bit sharply.

His eyes dart to hers, and she wonders if they flicker in amusement or if it’s just the light playing tricks. Then he checks the menu, and she pretends not to notice the motion of this throat as he swallows. She assumes he’s just indecisive when it takes longer than 30 seconds for him to give her his order, but then she realizes his attention has shifted again to the phone. There’s a line forming behind him, several customers pointedly tapping their feet or checking their watches.

Clarke clears her throat, raising her eyebrows expectantly when he looks up, the picture of boyish guilt.

“Uh, venti macchiato to go.” Belatedly he adds, “Please.”

“Name for the cup?” 

He’s digging in the bag for his card, chuckling at something on the other end of the line. Clarke taps the counter, clearing her throat until he looks back up. “Name for the cup,” she repeats.

He grins. “Bellamy.” 

Fuck, he would have a pretty name to go with that pretty face, wouldn’t he?

Because she needs to get her mind off those shoulders and that waist and the bedhead - does he use some kind of special mousse? - she decides to have a little fun of her own. She writes the name on the cup and sets it down behind the machine.

“Next in line,” she calls, looking over his shoulder.

She thinks maybe he’s definitely grinning all lopsided at her now, but she keeps her attention on the other customers, takes their orders until she’s got a line of cups in front of her, and then she starts in on making the drinks, Monroe appearing by her side to take half the stack. She tops off his macchiato and hands it over, smirking internally when he sees the name on the cup.

_Baloney._

His eyes narrow, the stormy gaze snapping over to hers. She lifts a shoulder, unconcerned. Serves him right for holding up everyone. And for making fun of her.

It’s two hours later that Anya mentions the vivid blue streak of paint behind her ear, one that Clarke is only able to see after contorting herself painfully in their tiny restroom stall.

Okay, so maybe that explains the laughter.

But whatever. It’s not like she’ll ever see him again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Bellamy returns the next day. 

This time he’s not in the tailored clothes from the day before, but just a shirt and jeans, and it’s unfair how well they fit his body. His muscles shift under the shirt as he stretches in line, yawning. Clarke’s mouth nearly goes dry. She wants to draw everything that’s under that shirt. Or possibly cover those muscles in paint. She can’t quite decide which.

Again, he’s on that cellphone, chatting away in a language she doesn’t know anything about, except that it’s definitely not English.

It bugs her, especially when his eyes do that stupid crinkly thing again as he catches sight of her while standing in line, and no, she is most certainly not looking back because she’s on drink duty today since Harper’s out sick and she needs to train Maya anyways.

He orders the same thing again. But Clarke can play at this game too, and so she plucks the cup from the stack, tersely saying, “I got it” before he can repeat his name a second time. Maya’s eyes widen when she sees the cup, while Bellamy stands to the side, still on the phone.

“That’s not right,” she whispers.

“Don’t worry about it. Just focus on that iced latte. I’ll take care of this one.”

At the last second, she adds a hasty cartoon figure on the side as well, exaggerating the curls and adding long fanning eyelashes atop the comically wide eyes. She hands the cup to Bellamy with her best cheery smile, tipping her hat. He checks the name and then glares back up. 

“Do I look like a Melanie?” He asks through gritted teeth.

Clarke bats her eyelashes. “Oops.”

Bellamy looks like he’s biting his cheek, but then another expression steals across his face, one that concerns her even more. 

_I can do this all day._

Clarke schools her face into boredom, propping a hand on her hip.

_I dare you._

With something dangerously close to a challenge curling his lips, he leaves.

~~~~~~~~~~

Bellamy comes back every day that week.

He’s impossible to miss, whether he’s in a neat button-up or a pullover hoodie, or good lord, a v-neck sweater that clings to him like a second skin. Clarke has never really been jealous of fabric until now. And yes, that mop of curls atop his head seems to be pretty permanent and pretty damn appealing, to her dismay. 

She’s exhausted on the third day, having stayed up to finish the first draft of her term project in time to receive feedback. So, the most creative she can get while also keeping an eye on the multitude of kids in the store - she swears they multiply on the spot some days - is _Bell Ami._ For good measure, she throws in a tiny Eiffel Tower next to it.

“What?” She says innocently when Bellamy glowers. “It’s French. Or is that not one of the languages you speak?” 

His nostrils flare a little, and the glint in his eye makes her really want to just pull him into a dark corner, but, alas. Whoever’s on the other end of the phone soon has his attention again, and the look in his eyes says _We’ll meet again_. He strolls out the door, pausing to high-five a young kid who points at his superhero shirt, and she’s definitely not smiling, not one bit, nor is she staring at his very fine ass as he leaves.

Until he glances over his shoulder unexpectedly, and totally catches her eyeing his backside. She flushes redder than Monroe’s hair, and now he smirks self-assuredly and raises his cup before taking a long sip. 

She puts _Malarkey_ on his cup the very next day just to spite him, and pretends she isn’t blushing at the laughter that sparkles in his eyes when he merely lifts an eyebrow as if to say, _Nice try._

Clarke is embarrassed to admit just how much of her night is spent on thinking of a good comeback, and even more aghast when she realizes she’s practically skipping to work, bouncing on her heels as she tosses a glance out the window now and then, waiting for that familiar broad form to round the corner.

She’s waiting for him. Like a foolish girl with a crush.

Before she can even fully comprehend the thought, his face comes into view. Her traitorous heart leaps, and the only reason she doesn’t beam is because she’s ducked below the counter, a hand over her mouth until she’s sure she won’t look like a complete loser when she stands.

Of course, that’s why she bangs her head into Harper’s elbow on the way back up.

“Ow!” She groans and grabs her head as Harper barely avoids spilling the two bottles of syrup and costing them a week’s worth of pay, settling them on the counter before turning to apologize. “No, no.” Clarke cuts her off. “My fault. Clumsy me.” She offers a shaky smile, wiping her hands on her apron.

Turning, she finds Bellamy bravely fighting a grin, though his eyes speak of worry all the same. She focuses on counting out change and getting orders correct. He moves up in line, speaking more softly into the phone at his ear.

When he reaches the counter, he pauses, then asks in that low drawl, “You alright there? Looked like quite the bump.”

Clarke shrugs, cheeks flushed. “I’ve had worse. The usual?” At his nod, she scribbles hastily on the cup, keeping it turned away from him. She’s totally not watching out of the corner of her eye when he picks up the macchiato, and she’s definitely not pleased when he outright grins at the _Blame Me_ scrawled across the bottom, complete with a replica of one of her favorite emojis - a monkey covering his eyes - to match.

The next day he enters during a mad rush, barely able to wedge himself in the door thanks to the long line, and it’s all Clarke can do to write _Bella_ on the cup in red sharpie this time, because they ran out of black markers - yeah, it’s dumb, but Anya already used up her grumbling for the day - and then she doodles a tiny vampire with a cape next to it, just in case he doesn’t get it.

Bellamy’s phone rings as he’s waiting for the drink, and she pretends not to notice how eagerly he answers it, how his free hand flails around as he speaks, like he’s telling a grand story that she wishes she could understand. 

While she’s in the middle of making a peppermint something or other, she hears him laugh, and her eyes flit up despite herself. He’s looking at the cup, a wide grin stretching his face. Then his eyes meet hers, and he gives her a thumbs up before leaving.

Harper spends the entire day teasing her about the foolish grin that she can’t wipe from her face.

~~~~~~~~~~

Raven returns from her vacation the following week, takes one look at Clarke’s face, and demands "Who is he?" 

"No-"

She's all but shoved aside by Harper, who fills in the details rather gleefully, aided in part by Maya's soft, if apologetic, corrections now and then. Even Anya stops to add her two cents -- _He’s boring, never orders anything different because he’s too busy staring_ \-- and by the time they’re done, Clarke is pretty sure she’d blend in with the tomatoes in her dad’s garden.

A gaggle of kids and their moms soon enters, effectively stopping any more gossip for the timebeing. Clarke sees the beginnings of a tantrum when one of the young girls - a ballerina in training, it appears - has her practice cancelled, so she hurriedly grabs her stencils from the back and sits down on the floor, offering to paint the little girl's cheeks.

"There's one rule, though," she wags a finger. "No crying, okay, sweetie? Don't want to ruin the butterflies, right?"

The girl nods, wide-eyed, and stays still as a statue while her mother throws a grateful look at Clarke for her few moments of peace. Clarke adds a few stars to the corners of her eyes, grinning when the girl asks if she can paint Clarke's cheeks too.

Not long after they leave, Bellamy shows up. The second he steps inside, the phone at his ear but his eyes on Clarke, Raven’s eyebrows shoot up so high they might fly away. Clarke gulps and busies herself with fixing the drink in front of her, even though she has to read the notes on the cup at least three times before they register in her addled mind.

She can’t be sure what Raven’s going to say, nobody ever knows what’s about to pop out of her mouth next, but still she focuses on not bumping into Maya and making sure to rinse the extra glass before filling it with--

“Is that Tagalog?”

She turns despite herself to see Bellamy’s jaw hanging open a little, and even Raven looks a little surprised by what she just blurted out.

He recovers first. “Uh… yeah. Yeah, it is. How’d you know?”

“My, um, my aunt once dated someone who was Filipino. He would speak it now and then, around the house. Not that I understood any of it.”

The way she fumbles over her _aunt_ tells Clarke it’s actually her foster mom she’s talking about, but since that’s something Raven rarely ever speaks of - especially not to strangers - she doesn’t intervene, just watches Bellamy nod quietly and wonders if he understood more than he let on.

“My sister’s visiting our grandma in the Philippines,” he explains after a moment. “She's taking all hybrid courses this term, so she worked it out that missing a couple weeks wouldn't hurt. But I wasn't so lucky. So I call them every day around this time, to hear about their adventures.”

He glances at Clarke, smiling ever so briefly, and now she gets it. Now he makes more sense.

Someone clears their throat behind him in line, startling him, but Raven only throws a nasty side eye their way. His smile is a bit wider, and a hell of a lot more dazzling this time, as he tilts his head at Clarke.

"Can I get the usual?" 

Raven props a hand on her hip, all sorts of mischief on her face, and Clarke knows she’s going to get such grief for it later. “Well,” she drawls, “you heard him, lady.”

Clarke throws a mock salute their way and grabs a cup, scribbling _BeLAMEy_ on the side with more than a little delight. She adds a baby drum set next to it - you know, _ba-dum-bum, tshhh._ After making up his macchiato, she holds it out to him, but his hand catches atop hers before she can pull away.

“Nice look,” he grins.

“Huh?” Clarke looks past his shoulder, catching sight of herself in the glass. Her blue cap is reversed, the brim facing backwards after too many times of leaning forward and unexpectedly bumping into bottles on the shelf. But her cheek is what stands out, the red paint barely dried over the small replica of a flower. Belatedly, she realizes her fingers are colorfully smeared too.

“Oh. I, uh--” The rest of her face hurries to match the red of the flower as Bellamy continues to hold her hand, practically beaming. “One of our regulars was in here earlier, and her daughter was upset and wouldn’t calm down, so I distracted her with some stencils and face paint. Guess I forgot about it afterwards.” 

She scowls at Harper and Monroe, who quickly busy themselves elsewhere. Raven, as expected, doesn’t look a single bit sorry.

Bellamy chuckles, though. “Lucky you had those on you.”

“Emergency supplies. I have a nephew,” she grins.

“Gotcha.” He finally releases her hand, though she was just kind of getting used to it. “Like I said, it’s a good look.” 

She doesn’t know what to say to that, so she just clasps her hands together to stop the weird tingly feeling. He raises his cup, barely even noticing the insult on the side, which seems weak now anyhow. 

“See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” she manages. It takes her a full minute to snap out of the daze, and when she turns she’s faced with three identical Cheshire grins.

“I hate you all,” she says primly, and makes a beeline for the restroom. Their laughter follows her in, but after she’s splashed herself with cold water numerous times and scrubbed her cheek until it hurts, she emerges to find Raven lingering.

“He was talking about you on the phone, you know,” her friend says casually.

Clarke shoots her a look. “Thought you didn’t understand Tagalog.” Her mouth trips over the unfamiliar word.

“Most of it, I don’t. But my mom’s boyfriend certainly used one particular word enough that I know it by heart.” She bares her teeth in a grin. _”Maganda._ It means beautiful. And he sure as hell wasn’t looking at me when he said it.”

No amount of water will cool her skin down after that.

~~~~~~~~~~

Bellamy doesn’t show the next morning. 

Clarke barely has time to feel sad - and to panic about being sad - when a flood of customers descend upon their little shop, thanks to the medical conference just across the street. She makes drink after drink, wipes every table until it shines, keeps track of which ingredients are running low using her trusty multi-colored post-its, until without warning, it’s the end of her shift.

She sags against the counter after writing up her notes more neatly for Anya to see that evening, and that’s when Monroe looks past her and begins to grin slyly.

“Clarke has a visitor,” she sings. Harper comes racing through the swinging door, Raven hot on her heels. The redhead points gleefully, and all their heads turn.

Bellamy is lounging against a tree, hands in the pockets of his grey coat. He’s not even looking inside, but he’s so clearly _waiting_ that Clarke gets a fluttery feeling in her stomach that alternately makes her want to throw up or float away. She forces herself not to rush, ignores the excited and pointed stares of the other girls, double and triple-checks that she’s finished her tasks, and still Bellamy lingers. Finally Raven throws her hands up with a huff and marches into the back, returning with Clarke’s bag. She shoves it into her hands without comment and fairly pushes her out the door.

Bellamy greets her with a tentative smile. “Hey.”

“Hi.” She pauses only for a second, then teases, “You’re late.” 

He laughs, relaxing. “I know. Had to hold extra office hours today. I’m a TA for one of the history classes, and their first exam is next Friday.”

“Ah. Panic mode, huh?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well I think you should treat yourself to a macchiato for that,” she says.

“Um…” Bellamy laughs again, quicker and rather sheepish. It’s a new look on him. “So, the thing is, I kind of don’t like macchiatos,” he confesses. 

Clarke stares in shock. “Come again?”

He shrugs, a hand rubbing his neck. “I don’t like ‘em. Didn’t even know what was in one before I ordered it. I had to Google it later.” A second later, his eyes widen. “Not that you made it poorly or anything.”

“Then why--?”

He chuckles, lightly tapping her nose. “The cute barista got me all flustered. I panicked. Picked the first thing I saw on the menu.”

A disbelieving smile tugs at her mouth. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. What’d you think I was talking so furiously into the phone about?” 

She bites her lip, grinning freely now. “I thought you were making fun of me.”

“No! Well, not entirely. My sister was giving me hell about why I completely lost track of our conversation. But the leftover paint on your neck was intriguing.”

“Babysitting my nephew went overtime. I always miss that spot,” she mutters, her hand lifting automatically. Bellamy reaches out and intercepts it, lacing their fingers together instead. Clarke finds herself very taken by their interwoven hands, so clearly different - and yet, they fit together. 

She’s brought out of her daze by Bellamy stepping closer, effectively stealing her breath once more. He grins unabashedly. 

“I sent a picture of each cup to my sister - Octavia. She was a major fan of the Twilight one. Paris came in second, only because she’s wanted to visit ever since she could crawl.”

Clarke laughs, a bit giddy. “I can’t believe you drank all those macchiatos even though you don’t like them.”

“I mean… I didn’t drink all of them,” he says meekly.

“But you paid for them. Ventis, too!”

“More space for you to draw,” he grins, and she shakes her head, even though she can’t help but be charmed all the same. “I have to admit,” Bellamy says, “I’m impressed at how much mileage you got out of my name.”

“It’s a good name,” she says without thinking, then blushes. 

A cheeky grin adorns his face. “Thanks. But I think I like yours better.”

Her mouth drops open. “I never told you my name.” When he keeps smiling, she purses her lips. “You don’t know it.” 

“Oh, but I do.”

“Prove it.”

Still smiling, Bellamy leans in close enough for her to see the birthmark under his chin, the freckles that scatter his cheeks, the faint scar above his eyebrow. All she can think about is capturing each little detail in a sketch, needing to put pen to paper to confirm he hasn’t just jumped out of her imagination. She thinks about tracing each mark with her hands and then her mouth, wondering how he’ll react. It occurs to her that he’s not one to hide what he likes, and now she’s thinking all sorts of things that really are better thought of in dark rooms and not under a bright midday sun-

Which is why she’s blushing furiously when his lips touch her cheek, and though it’s featherlight and careful, the warm pressure of his mouth makes her a little dizzy all the same.

“Clarke,” he whispers. Her knees go weak.

He pulls back, and she can’t help that her fingers bunch in his coat. “How--?”

“I may have come back after your shift the first day and bribed your fellow coworkers.” He laughs at the look on her face. “That surprised?”

“Yeah, a little. And-- they’re not the quietest bunch.”

Bellamy nods in understanding. “Like I said, I had bribes.” He shakes his head as her mouth opens to ask. “Can’t give away all my secrets from the get go, can I?” 

Clarke grins, playing along. “Alright. At least tell me this - if you don’t like macchiatos, what _do_ you like?”

“Coffee-wise, or in general?”

“Let’s start with coffee.”

“Vanilla lattes,” he says promptly, then chuckles as she wrinkles her nose. “Not a fan, I take it.”

“Not really. It’s just too… vanilla-y. I usually drink dark roast, cream only.”

“Noted. So how much longer before you’ll let me buy you one?”

“I should pay,” she argues, ignoring the question. “You’ve bought all these ventis and not even enjoyed them!”

“Nope, no way. First date, I’m paying. After that, you can argue with me about my antiquated ways all you want.”

Clarke grins, eyebrows rising. “After?” She asks pointedly. 

Bellamy visibly gulps, then tightens his grip on her hand, drawing her close. "After," he confirms lowly. “I'm not a one date kind of guy anymore." 

The _anymore_ is basically daring her to ask, but she decides they'll have plenty of time for that. _After,_ she thinks with a grin.

“Good to know,” she replies. His expression eases when he realizes she isn’t going to push.

He opens his mouth to speak, then looks past her shoulder and chuckles. Clarke turns in time to see three heads duck below the counter, leaving Maya perched atop the ladder to write the afternoon specials on the chalkboard. 

Clarke draws a hand over her face, groaning softly. Bellamy slides his arm around her shoulder, squeezing a little. She peeks up through her fingers.

“They have good intentions,” she insists.

“I know,” he says. “I could tell that the first time I spoke to them.” At her questioning look, he elaborates, “Let’s just say I am now aware of the many possible ways my life can end if I try any 'funny business' with you.”

Clarke’s eyes widen, and she mutters an “I’m sorry” into his jacket.

“Don’t be,” he says firmly. “It’s good that you have people who look out for you, Clarke.”

He’s only said her name twice now, but she’s already kind of in love with how it sounds. And then there’s the conviction in his voice, the fondness that tells her he’s familiar with looking out for someone too.

Abruptly, she asks, “Who looks out for you, Bellamy?” She’s going for something between joking and flirtatious, but when he gets a funny look on his face, she’s not sure if she achieved either.

He stares for a long moment, assessing, then smiles crookedly. “Is that your way of volunteering?”

Clarke breaks into a grin. “Depends. Are we ever going to get that coffee?”

~~~~~~~~~

They do get coffee, and she does let Bellamy pay the first time - but neither of them expects the first cup to turn into several.

It does, and they get refill after refill, the scent of vanilla lingering as they argue about payments, among other things. Bellamy kisses her in the middle of their fourth debate - or maybe fifth, Clarke’s having so much fun she’s lost track - and after that they decide it’s finally time to leave the coffee shop because he can’t stop himself from kissing her now that he’s started, and she decides it's time to find that dark corner after all. Vanilla still swarms her senses, sweet and oddly homey, and it’s not so bad.

Bellamy still takes phone calls every morning, which she finds more cute than anything else now, listening to the lilt of his voice and his laughter as he patters around his or her apartment to make breakfast on the weekends. And yeah, maybe she’s also into the Tagalog - what, it’s hot okay - especially when she finds out that’s not the only time he speaks the language. 

But one day over breakfast in his apartment, he pauses with a bite of egg halfway to his mouth, brow furrowing. Then he glances over at her apprehensively. Clarke takes a sip of coffee, waiting. 

Finally he blows out a nervous breath and holds the phone out.

“She wants to talk to you.”

“Your grandma?” She squeaks.

“What? No! I wouldn’t--” He considers, then speaks into the phone again, fast and stern. After a minute, he nods and holds it out again. “Just Octavia.”

Clarke takes another gulp of her coffee before putting the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“My hero!” Octavia’s cheer instantly makes her relax and laugh a little. “Those names were genius, Clarke, seriously, way to put big brother in his place.”

“Thanks, I tried. How’s your vacation?”

“Pretty awesome so far. We’ve been all over town, my grandma bargains like nobody’s business. And I watched this gorgeous sunset the other night. We’re traveling to one of the other islands tomorrow, and from there I’ll be hopping on a plane back to the States in a week.”

“I’d love to see pictures,” Clarke says, only to have Octavia rattle off her Instagram handle in seconds, followed by her Twitter handle, and a promise to find her on Facebook. Clarke grins over at Bellamy, who makes a motion with his hand and mouths _chatterbox._

“Hey, Clarke?” Octavia’s tone softens. “Listen, I just wanted to say that… Bell sounds really happy lately. So, thanks.”

Clarke smiles. “It goes both ways.”

“I’m sure it does. Let’s get lunch when I get back, okay? I’d really like to meet you in person, without him hovering.”

“Sounds great.”

They do meet, though it’s not as planned out as they expected. Clarke runs over to Bellamy’s apartment one day to show off her nephew’s latest masterpiece, juggling a vanilla latte in her other hand, only to have Octavia answer the door with a grin strikingly similar to her brother’s. Bellamy returns from getting groceries to find the two of them laughing on the couch, huddled over Octavia’s phone. 

He panics for a solid 30 seconds, then gives in and says, “I’m putting you both to work.” 

Clarke ends up stirring at the stove while Octavia chops veggies, alternately sneaking a bite here and there in the middle of sharing stories of a younger Bellamy, and though he shakes his head he gladly downs the latte and leans over to kiss her whenever Octavia’s preoccupied.

She does get to draw him eventually, first in secret while he’s asleep on her couch. He wakes up in the middle of it, but instead of asking to see, just pulls her down next to him and continues where they left off, and only later does she smugly finish the sketch by pencilling in a shadow along his jaw where she left a proper hickey. 

Bellamy turns out to be a good model even when he’s awake, more than happy to sit and read his history texts or grade papers while she curls on the armchair and tries to capture every one of his features that are quickly becoming beloved to her. 

~~~~~~~~~

The girls tease her endlessly at work, especially when she has to wear a scarf indoors for a few days in a row, but at least winter is almost here, she reasons. Though, she has zero excuse for making up a vanilla latte one day under Raven’s piercing gaze, simply because Bellamy’s been away for a week at a conference with his professor, and she misses him. 

“You taste like vanilla,” he murmurs the first night he’s back, between kisses to her cheek and chin and neck. 

She burrows closer, admitting into the dark that she drank vanilla lattes for the past three days, and he stops and just touches his forehead to hers. There’s a smile in his voice when he says, “I missed you too, Clarke.”

In the winter, he spends a lot of time at the coffee shop, his tall form folded into the corner table by the window as he works on draft after draft of his thesis or reviews his students’ work. She worries at first it’ll be distracting, but soon she realizes it’s nice to have him there - her heart does a funny little leap when she sees him hunched over his laptop with that determined look, and he’s always ready to share an eyeroll when she finishes dealing with an irate customer.

The girls welcome him warmly - even ice queen Anya thaws just a little when he manages to distract a few toddlers long enough for their moms to get some much-needed caffeine. Come Christmas, Raven and Harper are completely shameless about taking advantage of Bellamy’s height, requesting that he hang the multicolored snowflakes and angels all around the shop.

“Clarke made them,” Raven says meaningfully, ignoring her glower.

Bellamy does it good-naturedly, though he loves to tease Clarke later about _enjoying the view_ when he catches her staring at his arms or his back one too many times. She nearly falls off her own stepstool when his big hands settle on her waist, expression far too innocent as he insists he’s just there to help. 

He and Octavia even stick around to decorate the tree after hours, the younger Blake traipsing around Dollar Tree and emerging with all sorts of glittery ornaments to add to their collection. Harper brings in a bag of mistletoe one day, insistent on putting it up anywhere they can, and Clarke blushes under her Santa hat when Harper winks at her none too discreetly. 

Bellamy takes to catching Clarke every time she passes underneath the green sprigs, which results in at least three separate Instagram uploads of their liplocks on just the first day, to which Octavia responds with every emoji known to man.

Clarke barely pays attention, too busy sinking into Bellamy's embrace and trying to figure out when vanilla became her favorite flavor.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope the Tagalog didn't have any major errors! Also I simply could not figure out how to end this, so, yeah. XD Thanks for reading!!


End file.
